


Are You Anything Akin To Me?

by InALessLethalDress



Category: Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992), Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2013), Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, Pursuit, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-05-21 10:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6047512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InALessLethalDress/pseuds/InALessLethalDress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows he wants her. She might even want him. But she'll be damned if she's going to make it easy for him to get his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I can feel him with me, always. It’s not as if I want to. I _don’t._ I don’t. He knows this. But he is relentless, utterly without mercy. This does not surprise me, for did he not warn me himself of his nature, of his intent?

 

_“Best come to me willingly, my own, for if you allow that pride and stubbornness of yours to stiffen your resolve against me, then I will pursue you to the ends of the earth. There is nowhere you can go, no backwater you may foolishly consider a safe haven, to which I cannot follow you, and find you.”_

 

 _“I do not doubt it; you are a creature of infinite resource and terrible singularity of purpose where your will is thwarted. However, it will do you no good to follow me, and find me, except as the pursuit brings you pleasure. Hear this: I_ **_defy_ ** _you, and despise you, and will continue to do so with every breath I take, long past the point where my consistent denial ceases to amuse, and has instead begun to bore you.”_

 

I thought he would surely strike me then; such insulting contempt as I threw into my tone, my expression! And he a man wholly unused to opposition of any kind, with a temper utterly unsuited to brooking the insolence which I take delight in displaying towards him. A fearsome grimace did indeed flash across his features, one hand clenched abruptly at his side, and for a timeless moment I felt myself to be the arbiter of the scene; if the rage I had induced caused him to wreak vengeance on my person, then unquestionably I should emerge the victor - broken, torn I might be _physically_ , but his lapse in control would set me forever above him mentally.

 

Perhaps I half smiled at the reflection, I do not know. Possibly the infernal connection between us alerted him to my train of thought. Regardless, the strong face that had, but a second before, blazed at me in fierce wrath, altered subtly before my eyes, hardening - the true expression of deep feeling buried beneath a coolly polite, calculating veneer.

 

The sensation of control, even _enjoy_ ment, that I had experienced thus far in our encounter, fled. I had never been particularly successful in disguising my emotions ( _t_ _hough since making his acquaintance it had become absolutely essential_ ) and any and all tricks I did know in that direction had been learned through my observations of him. Certainly the one most adept at dissimulation had the advantage in the high stakes game we were engaged in; and my opponent was a master of the art. Decades, _centuries_ of experience gave him skill and patience that I could not hope to match, being all too mortal and all too young.

 

That he wanted me I did not doubt; that he was destined to remain unsatisfied I was determined. An infatuation, however obsessive, harboured by such an one as he, is by its very nature transitory; he would hunt, ravish and discard without a second’s thought or regret. It is perhaps a flaw in my character that I can know this and understand it, barely stirring up more than a vague, theoretical disapproval of such an amoral attitude. His is a predatory race, amoral indeed, and yet...why should I set myself up in judgment merely because my heart beats and I may expect to live my three score and ten? To judge would be as pointless as to envy - he is simply a breed apart and beyond my ken. I cannot find it within myself to ally my sentiments with those of the humans around me regarding the immortal beings of legend whom they fear and hate so vehemently, the very vocal strength of their feelings masking the prurient fascination they hold for those they affect to detest.

 

Vampires - _there, the word will out!_ \- are held to be soulless, but where is the evidence for that? The soul, I believe, lies not in the blood, though the life force certainly does. To be _truly_ soulless is to be dead; lacking thought, emotion, ambition and purpose. This man, this creature, the only one of his kind I have so far met, is none of these things. Indeed, he is more truly alive than anyone I have ever come into contact with. Emotional and intellectual intensity fairly pour from him; one feels **life** as soon as one enters his orbit. It flashes in his eyes, and throbs in his voice, it speeds your heart and raises the hairs on the back of your neck…

 

I do not think I was even mildly surprised when I was finally convinced of my suspicions regarding his true nature. The signs had all been placed before me: his visage had haunted my dreams long before we met in the flesh; his voice; dark, deep and rough with growling hints of a thick accent, overlaid with smooth, courteous, too-perfect English (an apt metaphor for his true character and the front he presented to the world) familiar to me already in half-forgotten fantasies. The moment he first lifted my gloved hand to his lips and made love to my name with his mouth, a flood of images - _memories, dreams, visions?_ I could not tell - bewildered me, and I heard his voice in my mind as if it had always been there - softly pleading, peremptorily commanding, harshly demanding, bewitchingly caressing.

  
I recall the look that crossed his face as I snatched my fingers violently from his in confusion. Even in the midst of my efforts to heave the unwelcome scenes from my brain whilst maintaining my socially acceptable calm, my eyes were drawn to his face as if by some magnetism. For a split second, his silver-blue eyes held all the pain in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

The breath was snatched from my lungs and I stared up at him with what, I fear, must have been a singularly stupid expression, for in that moment I felt his agony of spirit and its intensity robbed me of speech. All my faculties were suspended; to this day I do not know how I remained standing. _Oceans_ of loneliness and loss and grief and desperation passed through me, and I could no more have torn my eyes from his than I could fly.

 

Adrift in more pain than one person could experience in a lifetime, I was hardly aware of the shortness of my breath, the rapid acceleration of my heart, the slight swaying of my body and the spots before my vision. Just as I felt I must surely swoon, his eyelids swept down to cover his eyes. It was as if a switch had been flicked. I too, blinked, and the swirling storm of sensation in my mind abated.

 

The abruptness of the change staggered me, and my knees buckled, I fell, down, down...and found myself caught up easily into his arms. I had never before been held so intimately by a man; I cried out once, throwing out my hands as if to ward him off, but instead I watched in disbelief as the traitorous members clutched at the lapels of his coat and strained me closer to his chest. I felt the blood rush to my face; looking up, I dared to meet his eyes. They were close, too close, filling the whole world so that I could see nothing else.

 

His head was bent over mine, his long black hair mingling with my own more prosaic dark brown locks; at this distance I could see the delicate tracery of blue veins beneath his clear, pale skin. The sight filled me with the same feeling I had for my little pupils - a maternal determination to protect and defend. The notion of his being vulnerable was no doubt laughable, especially considering the iron strength in the arms that held me so carefully, but the veracity of the revelation I underwent on seeing the source of his life so close to the surface of his skin, and therefore so near to destruction, passed through me like a blow to my midsection.

 

The violence of this new emotion stunned me; I felt quite savagely that I would stand between him and all comers. It was then that sense reasserted itself; _had I gone quite mad?_ We were strangers who had met by chance on a busy London street not five minutes since and would never see each other again. He could - he _would_ \- mean nothing to me, whatever strange spell had me in his thrall. I was, after all, a married woman, or as good as married, and my Jonathan deserved a proper English wife who was as faithful in her thoughts as she was in body.

 

Prince... _Vlad, that was his name_ \- Prince Vlad’s compelling eyes had not left mine during these internal deliberations,  yet I could feel by the rush of the air past my face that he was carrying me somewhere. It did not occur to me at the time that his body was quite still, and that he did not appear to be expending any effort, despite carrying a grown woman wearing pounds in weight of constrictive corsetry and petticoats.

 

How foolishly, unforgivably naive I was then! And yet how could I have been otherwise? A properly reared, delicately nurtured young lady in Victorian England had no business being anything else. It was her eventual husband’s task to fill her head with the thoughts he wanted there, those that would best serve him and the smooth running of his household; to guard her innocence against any hint of original and individual thought, and spark of passion - for that way led to hysteria, madness and anarchy.

 

Having an indulgent, learned and abstracted father, and no mother to remake me in her own image, served to cast me in a somewhat different mold. My thoughts had never been fettered, nor my opinions suppressed, and my education had encompassed more than the running of a house and the pleasing of a man. I was a voracious reader, ever curious, and had travelled (through the medium of imagination) far beyond the confines of so-called Polite Society. I craved action, experience and a different set of people, all the time suffering the ever-torturing knowledge that as Miss Wilhelmina Murray it was impossible, and that as Mrs Jonathan Harker it was only barely more likely.

 

My choosing to be a schoolmistress rather than a governess had raised eyebrows - there was a set path for a young miss of respectable birth, good education and little or no fortune, and I had deviated from it. Not enough, however, to cause more than a little harmless gossip, which the certainty of my coming marriage to an ambitious young clerk with good prospects soon smoothed away. After all, was it not _right_ , and _proper_ , and perfectly _respectable_ that two young people of similar rank and pedigree should come together, improving their lot by mutual association and comfort, until the time was right for them to bring offspring into the world, who would live and die in the same sphere to which they had been born? Was not England, and London in particular, the centre of the world, and were not the middle and upper classes the only people worth associating with?

 

Respectability - that god of Society’s idolatry! It need only be the _appearance_ of respectability of course; let what you will happen beneath the veneer. The Victorian _paterfamilias_ sits on his Boards, perambulates at parties, presides over his household with kind and firm absolutism...that is what is respectable, that is what we **see** ; yet it is an open secret that he has a mistress, or two, a whole other family somewhere in the squalid end of Town, has an unnatural relationship with his footman, that he visits opium dens, beats his wife, drinks too much or visits the Opera nightly and stays far beyond the final curtain…we know it, and he knows we know it - he in turn, knows our shameful secrets, and everyone smiles, sips champagne, flirts and gossips behind their hands, holding a dreadful conspiracy of silence, and the Polite World keeps on spinning, spinning…

 

Aware of all this, detesting it with every fibre of my being, desperate to leave such cloying associations behind, I was ripe for the Prince’s entry into my life. He could not have planned it better. New sensations and emotions, thoughts and impressions crowded in upon me without stopping once he crossed my path. His very novelty, the knowledge of being both fascinated and repelled by his _otherness_ , captured my interest and dazzled my senses. His unwavering pursuit of me, which he did not even attempt to conceal from the shocked eyes of Society, could not but flatter a young woman accustomed to being cast into the shade by her best friend. Used to holding myself aloof from the petty dissipations of the world to which I reluctantly belonged, I found myself attending _soirees_ , musical evenings, theatre parties, dinner dances, routs and balls merely in the hopes of seeing him.


	3. Chapter 3

To Lucy’s glee, I entered with enthusiasm into every sartorial plan she had for my ornamentation, secretly delighting in casting off the demure whites, greys and icy pastels which befit my station and instead glorying in the magnificent creature I saw reflected back at me in the mirror, enrobed in a succession of rich, sensuous colours. I was weary of an existence ruled by the fear of what others might think and say; it entertained me enormously that while my appearance might be considered scandalous (and that not through any lack of modesty but merely a deviation from what was considered proper for a young girl in my situation) I was as virginal and unsullied in red satin as ever I had been in white muslin. 

 

I had no intention of becoming involved with the Prince,  physically or otherwise. I was conscious of the strong pull of attraction between us; certainly the dreams of him which felt like memories that dogged my nights disturbed me momentarily on waking; it was thrilling indeed to know myself wanted, to wield for the first time the power of my sex over a man - and such a man!; to feel the jealousy of every woman directed poisonously towards me, observe their attempts to subvert his interest from me and fail utterly; yes, all this was heady stuff indeed, and yet it was the conviction that I spoke with someone who felt and thought as I did that lured me most. We were somehow apart from the vulgar herd, even as we formed the sun around which they orbited for that Season. They did not-  _ could  _ not- understand us, and we, understanding them all too well, were alike in our contemptuous dismissal of their tastes and opinions. 

 

Certainty of kinship, deep down in the soul, where it matters (for I could not hope to match his beauty, or rather, his vigour which was more than beauty) had quickly overcome the shackles of shyness imposed upon me by the order of the day, and I felt more and more myself, my  **true** self, with every passing minute in his presence. He drew me out, listened to all I had to say, challenged me, debated with me, told me of wonders which I saw all too clearly through his eyes. Under such influence I unfurled like a flower to the sun, becoming more assured in stating my opinion, secure in the knowledge that my thoughts had value to him, if to no one else. 

 

Only when we danced did we cease to communicate verbally; for in his arms I was rendered mute by his proximity, and I dared hope it was the same for him. Undoubtedly, his pupils blew wide as his eyes raked my face once, as if to take me in, then returned to meet my own. I saw myself reflected in his eyes, and almost stumbled, because in them I was beautiful. Almost too beautiful to look at.  _ Is that how he sees me?  _ I wondered, dazedly, and heard his voice in my head already answering:  _ You are the most radiant woman in all the empires of the earth.  _

 

It was only his arm, firm and sure at my back, that prevented me from disgracing myself then. I looked up sharply; his expression was bland, innocent, as if nothing less trivial than my clumsiness had occurred. And yet I  **knew** him, at this point, knew him as I knew myself, and there was something in his eyes that told me he was completely aware. His hand on my waist shifted, drawing me closer within the frame of his body, his thigh pressed firmly between my legs as he whirled me in a tight arc at one end of the ballroom, and I hissed involuntarily. Locked as our eyes were, I caught the gleam of knowing amusement that passed through his like quicksilver, and my eyes narrowed. 

 

Even as I opened my mouth to reprimand him, I saw something over his shoulder that had me pulling from his hold and running full tilt across the dance floor to the circle of people observing. Giggling to myself at the confounded look I had surprised on the Prince’s face as I had left his arms, I narrowly avoided crashing into Lucy and fell instead into two outstretched arms. “Jonathan!” I squeaked in delight. 

 

I should have known, of course. I had never been in control; it had been yet another sweet delusion the Prince had spun me. As Jonathan righted me, I glanced mischievously over my shoulder, seeking him in the crush to apologise with my eyes. 

 

He was standing where I’d left him, in the middle of the dance floor, facing me. He should have looked ridiculous, an island in the middle of the ocean, waltzing couples giving him a wide berth and casting uneasy glances at him from beneath their lashes. He did not look ridiculous. He had an air about him which could have made any bizarre situation in which he found himself seem utterly irrelevant. Eyes which would have held gleeful malice for any other man in his place now looked at him admiringly. He held himself with such authority that no one questioned but that he was exactly where he wanted to be. 

 

Talking and laughing with Jonathan and Lucy, I could not but make the contrast between the two men. My  _ fiance _ was perhaps an inch or two taller than me, well turned out - handsome, even, judged by the standards of the day, with light brown hair, hazel eyes and regular features. His eyes were warm as they looked into mine, his smile pleasant; yet I did not feel that singular, irresistible pull towards him as I did with the Prince. 

 

**He** was head and shoulders taller than me, so that I had to look up into his face when conversing. Yet his height was not of the willowy sort other tall men of my acquaintance seemed cursed with. He was broad shouldered and imposing, his presence almost a tangible force in the room. Strong arms and depth of chest yielded to long, lean flanks and powerful thighs, the muscles visible beneath his evening dress. His hands were of peculiar beauty, shapely, long fingered and sensitive. Latent strength under perfect control was evident in every movement he made; he had always exhibited the most exquisite care when giving me his hand, as if he was afraid that one careless move would do irreparable damage. 

 

His black silken hair he wore long, with a fine disregard for the prevailing fashion; he likewise scorned the heavy whiskers and sideburns that were so popular among his contemporaries, confining himself to a mustache that emphasized, rather than disguised, the sensuality of his firm red lips, and a small triangle growth below his mouth, pointing to his hard, decided jaw. I blush to confess that I had often wondered what it would be like to be kissed by that mouth, to wind my hands through his hair, to feel the muscles of his shoulders flex beneath my fingers…

 

Is he handsome? It seems a tame word for what he actually is. His face, with its broad forehead and glittering silver-blue eyes under strongly marked black brows, high slashing cheekbones and straight-ridged nose, is too beautiful to be handsome, too strong to be beautiful and too-  _ something else _ to be any of these things. If the word exists to describe him, I have not yet come across it. My own inept attempts at description vex me beyond bearing; he has to be seen to be fully comprehended. For it is not merely in his outward features that his fatal attraction lies; his inmost soul must give fire to his eye, command to his bearing, and draw us all to him like moths to flame.  He is more intensely  _ present _ than anyone. 

 

My musings chase each other across the firmament of my imagination as I covertly compare the two gentlemen - from the moment of my leaving the Prince mid-dance in order to greet Jonathan perhaps two minutes have passed. 

 

I look up, properly, and meet my erstwhile partner’s eyes across half the room, and it is as if a cold hand closes about my heart, and squeezes. For therein lies none of the softness I have been used to seeing directed towards me; his eyes blaze like dying stars with a species of fury I have never before encountered. My limbs turn to water; I glance wildly about me - surely everyone else must see as I do, and quake? A gasp escapes me; the room is quite empty but for the Prince and myself, the music and chatter hushed, the revellers vanished. Putting a hand to my head, I turn slowly once to make sure, then, stiffening my spine, I face him once more. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

The silence is crushing, my breath coming fast and light. All the nerves in my body seem to be falling over each other in their frantic efforts to get as far away from the detected threat as possible, while I grimly attempt to override them with nothing but my will. I can only imagine what effect this internal struggle must have on me, externally, but I am determined to conceal as much of my terror as I can from him. Folding my hands quietly before me to prevent any tell-tale fidgeting, I force myself to meet his gaze calmly. 

 

He stands as though rooted to the spot; only half a ballroom separates us, but devoid of people as it is, it seems infinitely more. The moment stretches, thick with tension, and I lose the fight not to swallow nervously. His eyes home in on the movement instantly, and linger at my throat. I somehow immediately need to swallow all over again and my palms start to dampen. Surreptitiously pressing them into the fabric of my skirts, and giving myself a mental shake, I take the initiative to speak;  _ his _ demeanour suggests we could well be in this staring contest come Doomsday. 

 

“Uh-” Having to stop to clear my throat adds the spur of anger to my fear-laden tongue. I determine then and there to make him regret this whole disturbing evening.  “Would you care to explain what happened to the rest of the party?” I demanded. “Or to phrase it another way: would you care to explain what you  **did** to the rest of the party?”

 

My words put him into motion; with slow deliberation, he places his hands behind his back and takes a few paces diagonally to my left, so that I am forced to turn unless I wish to view him using only my peripheral vision. 

 

“Would you care to explain why you prematurely ended our waltz?” he returned lightly, appearing to examine one of the flower arrangements in minute detail. 

 

“I enquired of you first.” I pointed out, wincing as my reply emerged in a far more petulant fashion than I would like. 

 

I catch the shadow of an amused, indulgent smile at that as his measured pacing resumes. I remain facing forward this time, even as I sense him circling behind me; I refuse to follow him around the points of the compass. I will not give him the satisfaction - clearly, I provide him with enough amusement at my expense as it is. 

 

“True.” He is directly behind me now; the  _ pull _ I feel whenever he is near me - as if every atom of my flesh had found its mate in the corresponding atom of his flesh - has intensified. I am achingly aware of his body at my back; if such a thing were possible, I could easily believe that every sense receptor in my frame has deserted their place in favor of converging on my spine in order to render it the consistency of soup. Perhaps the wiser course would be to stay facing him-

 

“Suffice it to say that being me has its advantages, my pet.” His voice is airy. Even with my back to him, I can  **_see_ ** the dismissive wave of one elegant white hand accompanying his words. My teeth clench angrily. “Now,” he continues smoothly, warm against the shell of my ear, and despite myself I stand a little straighter at the sudden, **total** lack of airiness in his tone, “I believe it is  _ your _ turn.”

 

“Did you not see?” I enquired with false sweetness. “Jonathan has returned. My **fiance** .” I remind him, with unnecessary emphasis. 

 

“I did catch a glimpse of him, as a matter of fact,” he replied, his breath stirring the curls at the nape of my neck. “The fact that Jonathan Harker has returned to London does not, in and of itself, explain why you terminated our dance prematurely, flew pell-mell across a crowded room and flung yourself into his arms.” There is the barest hint of outraged disbelief in his tone.

 

“The fact that he is my fiance and I missed him should.” I snapped, thoroughly ruffled. 

 

We were abruptly face to face, so unexpectedly I felt my breath catch. I had neither seen nor felt him move. A mere foot separating us, I was forced to look up if I wished to meet his eyes. I was by no means sure that this was a  _ consummation devoutly to be wished _ , but native contrariness and a distaste of backing down compelled me to do so. 

 

He was examining me, head tipped to one side, with an expression similar to that I imagine a scientist wears when pondering an exotic, heretofore undiscovered species. I interwove my fingers so I would not give in to the itch to slap it from his face. 

 

“ ‘Missed him’?  _ Missed _ him?” He seemed to be tasting the words on his tongue, testing their meaning and validity. Judging by his expression, he did not care for them. Not in this context, at least. 

 

“Yes,” I replied staunchly, lifting my chin. 

 

His eyes darkened; tilting his head, he caught and held my gaze. I bit the inside of my lip, hard, and stared doggedly back at him, willing myself immune to the devastating effect he had on me. 

 

“When?” he asked simply, his silver-blue eyes boring into my no doubt panicked dark brown ones. 

 

I frowned. “What?” I blurted, confused. 

 

“When, during his absence, did you miss Jonathan Harker?” he repeated slowly, as if speaking to a child.

 

“Your question contained its own answer,” I replied sweetly, with just a hint of triumph included to goad him. Mimicking his earlier actions, I hooked my hands in the small of my back and took a slow turn about the room, pausing to appreciatively examine the decorations. Pointedly ignoring his presence, I chuckled inwardly at what I presumed must be his discomfiture at my tactics. 

 

When my perambulations brought the Prince within my field of vision again, he was standing with his shoulders propped against a wall, arms folded across his chest and his legs crossed at the ankle, surveying me sardonically. Arrogance was in every line of the casual stance, and though he looked magnificent, I was well able to withstand my body’s natural reaction and instead retain my simmering annoyance. 

 

“Well?” I said irritably, coming to a halt in front of him.

 

“Little liar,” was his soft reply. He seemed to think that sufficient, closing his lips and looking as if he had satisfactorily solved a problem. 

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” I enquired, with dangerous calm. I had an inkling of the direction of his thoughts, and it was going to go very badly for him if he pursued it. 

 

Unfolding his arms, the fingers of his right hand toyed absently with the signet ring on his left little finger as his eyes roved over my face. “Merely that I have discovered your secret. You are not the pure, stainless Wilhelmina Murray you would have the world think you. A properly brought up young lady would  _ never _ lie about her feelings for a man.” His tone was spiced with mockery, and I was perilously close to losing my temper, something I could not remember doing since childhood. 

 

“Perhaps not in _your_ country, your Highness, but here a properly brought up young lady is expected to do nothing  **but** lie about her feelings for your sex!” I responded heatedly. His eyes lit with amusement, and I wished furiously that I had learned to think before I spoke. Properly brought up young ladies did  **not** use that word, did not allude to it, were not even aware of its existence, even as a synonym for gender. 

 

Feeling the heat stealing into my cheeks, I hurried into speech: “Be that as it may, I have no need to deceive  _ any _ one about my feelings for Jonathan! He is my husband, and I am his wife- ”

 

He had pushed himself away from the wall with his shoulders and was towering over me before I could finish, resulting in my making a very unladylike gulping noise. His left arm whipped around my waist, pulling me off balance and into the cage of his body, while his right hand twined through the artfully contrived coiffure Lucy’s lady’s maid had spent so much time perfecting, seemingly a lifetime ago. I was barely aware of pins raining around me as he shifted forward, using his grip on the mass of my hair to angle my head so that it was parallel with the hardwood floor, baring my neck to the tangible brush of his hungry gaze. 

 

My heart hammering against my ribs, my skin clamouring happily at his proximity, and my conscious mind in outright rebellion, I took mental stock of my predicament: from sternum to thigh, we were pressed flush together, though due to our height difference, his thighs were braced against my lower stomach. The rest of his long legs were tangled in my skirts either side of mine, and for the first time in my life I was devoutly thankful for the intervening layers of petticoats and hoop. His right forearm supported my upper back, the press of his body inclined me over the steel of his left arm at my waist, the suddenness of his maneuver had trapped my hands flat against his chest; altogether I imagine we looked quite scandalous. 

 

My skittering thoughts were abruptly brought back to the issue at hand. 

 

“I think you are not married yet, my Mina.” he spoke directly into my ear, in a voice that brought to mind the calm before the storm. 

 

I pushed ineffectually at his chest even as I railed against him in my mind. “Not formally, no, not yet, but I consider myself to be a married woman, Prince!”

 

Something inside him stilled; I felt his lips brush my hair, and cursed the weak rush of heat that swept through my body as a result. I redoubled my efforts to free myself from his hold; my struggles did not even impinge on his awareness. Certainly, they moved him not, nor caused him to slacken his embrace one iota. Temporarily exhausted, I allowed myself to relax in his arms, staring painfully into his face, determined to divine its secrets. He appeared to be holding counsel within himself, his gaze fixed sightlessly on some far off vista in which I had no place. My soul cried out in protest at the unbearable thought; as if he had heard me, his eyes returned to mine, sharpening to take me all in, and that part of me which had withered revived instantly. It was insupportable that his mind should wander where I might not follow. 

 

I turned my head with a sigh, contemptuous of my own inconsistency, and saw my reflection for the first time in one of the huge floor to ceiling gilt mirrors that lined one side of the room. There I was, apparently supporting my own weight quite comfortably in a position that, while not impossible, was certainly  _ unlikely _ to be assumed on one’s own for any length of time. 

 

My blood felt as if it was slowly turning to ice in my veins as I stared at the horror drenched face reflected back at me. Closing my eyes briefly to shut out what could  **not** be possible, I reopened them to find myself standing upright with my back to the mirrors and facing the Prince, who had retreated a few paces and was regarding me gravely. I did not bother looking at the mirror again; I knew what I would find, and my heart was only just beginning to resume its usual rhythm. Besides which, I needed to retain the use of my faculties if I was to reach some understanding of what I had witnessed. 

 

Trying for a little insouciance, convinced that otherwise I should run quite mad, I began my interrogation: “You said earlier that ‘being you has its advantages’. Could you clarify for me what ‘being you’ actually entails?”

 

“Magnetism, intelligence, power, wealth…but I sense that is not quite what you meant. Perhaps you could be a little more specific?” His tone was polite, distant; he seemed...wary. It was not a trait I had observed in him before, and the fact that he felt it necessary terrified me more than the other. 

 

“What- what  **are** you? Why can I not see your reflection? Do you not have one? How were you able to make everyone at the ball disappear? Are you some sort of magician?” The questions tumbled from my lips, my words falling over themselves in their haste to leave my mouth and forget that they were ever there. 

 

He paused, eyeing me. “If I were to say I was a magician, would that make you comfortable?” he finally asked.

 

I stared at him wild-eyed, chafing at all this obfuscation. “At this point the only thing that would make me comfortable is the whole, unvarnished truth.” I said firmly.

 

His shoulders shook with soundless laughter, which increased the harder I glared at him. When he could command his voice, he replied drily, “Oh, my dear Mina, if I were to tell you the ‘whole, unvarnished truth’, you would never be truly comfortable again.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry it's been so long, and for such a short chapter! Hope you enjoy anyway. More will come. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

I gave the closest approximation to a scornful laugh that I was capable of. “On the contrary, being kept in the dark is the only thing that would have that effect.” Did I imagine the shadow of a wince cross his features? “How little you know me, Prince, to assume that I’m incapable of handling the truth!” 

 

In an effort to combat the incipient terror, which I had as yet no basis for, but which my better informed instincts were threatening to overwhelm me with anyway, I focused on my other emotions. It hurt that he had kept something from me. It stung that he believed me too weak and sheltered to share in his truth. Hadn’t these past weeks shown him that I was worthy of his confidence, that I was that rare thing - an enlightened, modern woman among the social butterflies and matrimonial prizes?

 

His features twitched momentarily into a scowl, which was instantly smoothed; he tilted his head to regard me with the bland, considering expression I hated most, excluding me as it did from his inner thoughts, while he seemed to be able to read mine like lifting words from a page. He moved slowly towards me again, his face calm, neutral, his whole body relaxed and deliberately unthreatening. 

 

My own body took note and stilled in response; despite my mind’s frantic yammering to be anywhere other than here, the rest of me seemed more intent on riding this particular adrenaline high to its conclusion. I ruthlessly ignored the slightly hysterical inner voice telling me I ought to conduct a study into thrill-seeking behaviour amongst well brought up young ladies. 

 

“There are some truths, little one, for which even you, with all your splendid rationality and exquisite imagination, are not prepared.” he stated softly. We were close again, staring intently into one another’s faces, caught up in a moment where I searched his eyes desperately for a clue as to the thoughts that rose to the surface, flickered briefly and were submerged again before I could do more than glimpse them. 

 

“So- that is all?” I asked finally, when the silence became too heavy and taut to endure. “You really are not going to disclose the truth about what happened here this evening? The truth about  _ you? _ ” My voice rose to an incredulous, angry pitch as I uttered the last word, accompanied by a sharp, involuntary gesture encompassing everything enigmatical about the man before me. 

 

Glaring at him expectantly, I did not miss his hesitation. “Not - yet,” he replied slowly, as if weighing each word as it left his mouth. “I need to be certain - that is, you need to be ready,” he concluded, with an air of finality. It was the first time I had seen the Prince anything approaching off-balance. 

 

I stared at him open-mouthed for a moment, before the power of speech returned to me with a vengeance. “ **You** need to be certain.  **You** need me to be ‘ready’. And I suppose what I feel is completely unimportant? You are just like all the other pompous, brain-dead, self-satisfied  _ prigs  _ masquerading as men that I have known all my life! No more, no less!” 

 

Whirling to leave in a flurry of skirts, I was rather proud of my outburst. It vented enough of my spleen that I could see straight, and it would undoubtedly bruise the Prince’s ego. He thought he was far superior to every man alive. Now he knew differently. 

 

I should have known that I wouldn’t get far. 

 


End file.
